


In the Country of the Blind

by JeanGraham



Category: Blake's 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 18:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Vila's not cut out to be a revolutionary, but no one's listening.





	In the Country of the Blind

In the Country of the Blind 

* * *

  
by Jean Graham   


Vila still saw the dead man in his sleep.

It was three months, ship time, since Cygnus Alpha; three months   
since the melee in Vargas' temple. But the sound of the knife   
sliding in, wet and hideous, had never ceased haunting his   
nightmares. And the blood...

Shuddering the memory away, Vila drew in a measured breath -- and   
pressed the lighted entry-chime on Blake's cabin door. He took the   
muffled grunt that responded as permission to enter and did so,   
surprised to find the rebellion's burly leader hunched over a work   
table, scribbling plans with an antique stylus. It was 2 a.m. by   
Liberator's chronometers. Didn't the man ever sleep?

The stylus scritched for several moments before its user became   
aware of Vila hovering nearby, and hazel eyes glanced up, full of   
bright fury and determination. Mapping out the next operation,   
Vila realized uncomfortably. The general plots the war, and then   
expects me to fight it for him.

Only he didn't want to fight it. And he didn't care what anyone   
thought of him as a result. In three short months, Blake had   
crowded this ship with rebels from a dozen planets, collected an   
armada of six stolen ships in addition to Liberator, and   
destroyed or damaged eight vital Federation bases. Now his army   
was converging on a weapons cache hidden somewhere below them on   
Buchaun IV. And a thief who could open the door locks would   
undoubtedly be thrust into the forefront of the battle. Again.

"What is it, Vila?"

The question, gruff and vaguely annoyed, startled the thief.   
"I..." he stammered. "I wanted..."

"Yes?"

Blake's impatience derailed him. Stupid to come here. Why'd you   
bother? Unbidden then, a question he hadn't really intended to   
ask tumbled out and lay naked on Blake's table. "How many people   
have you killed? Face to face, I mean?"

Vila watched the annoyance turn rapidly to amazement, then   
puzzlement. "That's a rather odd thing to ask."

The die cast, Vila merely met the bigger man's eyes and waited.   
Blake set the stylus patiently aside and folded his hands. "I'm   
afraid I don't remember very much about my life before... well,   
very much about the Freedom Party. Is it important?"

Unsure how to answer that, Vila sidestepped the question instead.   
"And since then? Since Liberator, I mean?" 

Blake frowned. "I haven't exactly kept a head count. Few   
revolutions are ever successful without bloodshed, Vila. Even you   
should realize that."

Vila let the Alpha condescension pass. "I'm no good at this sort of   
thing," he blurted. "No good at all. I don't think I can--"

"Don't worry," Blake cut him off, retrieving the stylus to resume   
his scribbling. "You'll get used to it."

"But--" Vila's objection faltered, dying altogether when Blake's   
attentions refocused entirely on his work. The thief sighed.   
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, aware that Blake no longer listened.   
"Thanks."

The leader of the rebellion never even heard him leave. 

* * * 

Avon was increasingly difficult to locate these days, probably   
because he detested crowds. Vila tracked him to a deck five   
computer closet the following day, after most of Blake's new   
minions had gone planetside to prepare for the upcoming raid. The   
Alpha tech's surprise at finding Vila in the corridor was expressed   
by two slightly raised eyebrows.

"I need to talk to you," Vila said without preamble. "About   
Blake."

Though Avon's stern expression might have deterred him once, Vila   
had long ago learned to expect no sympathy from this quarter: Avon   
had surgically amputated that emotion, along with most of the   
others.

"I'd have thought," Avon said frostily, "he'd have you down there   
opening locks by now. Or have you been hiding?"

"No! I mean, that's just it. I don't want to go."

"You never do."

"I mean it this time. I'm not cut out for this. I want out."

Avon's bleak gaze raked him, coldly assessing. "Don't be a fool.   
Where do you think you would go?"

Vila hadn't considered that, and didn't care to just yet. "I'm no   
revolutionary," he insisted. "Any more than you. I don't belong   
here -- I'm nothing but a liability!"

"We know."

Vila was not in the mood for banter. "Come off it, Avon. You said   
yourself he can't win. You gonna stay with a loser?"

"No," the tech responded glumly. "I stay where it is safe. Blake   
is incidental."

Vila scoffed. "You won't convince him of that."

"I don't intend to try." Avon turned to go; Vila called him back   
with a soft and urgent plea.

"Avon--"

"Yes?"

The terse response, in every way as impatient -- and Alpha -- as   
Blake's had been, threatened to fetter Vila's tongue. He fought   
the inclination off with a mental slap: this wasn't Earth dome   
prison any longer, no more sadistic Federation guards to assure   
that he grovel and obey every petty demand. Only, with all the   
Alpha-grade superiority aboard Liberator, things sure didn't feel   
much different sometimes.

"It's all the killing," he said at last, and watched Avon's brows   
go up again. "A good honest burglary's one thing, but I can pass   
on mass homicide."

Avon's smile held all the warmth and charm of a Dactyllian pit   
viper. "Wars can only be won by virtue of mass homicide, Vila. Or   
hadn't you noticed?"

"You can laugh well enough," Vila chided. "You weren't down on   
Cygnus Alpha when things got really ugly. You never had to kill   
anyone would've killed you first if you hadn't. Well did you?"

Avon's eyes went funny for a fraction of a moment -- sort of pained   
and distant. Then they fixed on Vila with a frosty intensity that   
said, unmistakably, Oh, but I have.

Vila faltered. "Oh," he said, and then dumbly repeated the   
syllable as realization sank in. "Oh... Well, that is... I didn't   
mean..."

"I intend to survive," the arctic voice interrupted. "Better you   
and Blake and the rest should learn here and now that if ever it   
comes to a choice, I will not be the one to die."

Avon's abrupt departure left the implied threat hanging almost   
tangibly in the corridor. "Thanks, Avon," Vila said to the wall.   
"That's a real, solid comfort." 

* * * 

Not unexpectedly, Blake ordered him to the surface that same   
afternoon. He and the red plastic toolkit materialized amid a   
flurry of well-armed activity. Gathered inside the commandeered   
underground bunker, Blake's recruits, most of them youngsters,   
obviously took their fighting seriously: they were engaged in   
cleaning and polishing their haphazard collection of weaponry with   
all the zeal of new converts. Converts who had probably never   
killed before. The air smelled of solvents and cleaning oils.   
Vila wrinkled his nose as he ventured past the first wave of busy   
troops. None of them paid him any mind, but then few people ever   
did. Deltas grew accustomed to invisibility. For a thief, it   
might even be considered an asset.

Eager young voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The bunker   
stretched, cavern-like, for several hundred meters. Probably it   
had once been an ammunition dump as well, back in the heyday of   
Federation expansionism, when the few hold-out planets that   
remained had had to be subdued with missiles and orbiting nuclear   
"watch stations." The Federation, Vila mused, was nothing if not   
damnably subtle.

Cally's calm voice finally rose above the confusion and Vila   
spotted her amid a cluster of attentive students, lecturing on the   
art of stealth assault. Funny how he never would have figured a   
girl like Cally for a commando. But then, he'd never have expected   
a rebel army to contain so many women, either. Old calendar sexism   
was still alive and well on Earth's Delta levels.

"Lost something, Vila?"

He jumped, wheeled to face Gan's friendly grin, and recovered in   
time to quip, "Yes! My sanity. You haven't seen it anywhere, I   
suppose?"

"Not around here. We're about to move out. That why Blake sent   
you down?"

"Cannon fodder," Vila groaned. "I always wanted to be front of the   
battle lines, you know. My life's ambition."

The bigger man's grin became a not-so-reassuring chuckle. "Don't   
worry. You'll be safe enough."

"So you say."

"So we all say." The new voice belonged to Jenna, who had   
materialized out of the crowd surrounding Cally. Vila hadn't   
recognized her in drab brown combat fatigues, her blonde hair   
hidden beneath a nondescript military hat. He didn't like the   
look. He liked what she handed him even less. The Federation-   
issue compact rifle, old and heavily scratched, had nevertheless   
been cleaned and polished in anticipation of the raid. Vila   
wondered whether shiny guns killed more efficiently -- or simply   
gave overeager, bored recruits something to do while they waited   
for the shooting to start.

He balanced the thing clumsily in one hand, still gripping his   
toolkit with the other, and switched on his best disapproving   
frown. "I never carry guns, thanks just the same. I'm allergic to   
loud noises."

"Hang onto it, Vila." That was Jenna's no-nonsense tone. "Once   
we're inside, you may need it."

"Inside? Oh now wait a minute. Just open the door, Blake said,   
then my part would be over!"

Jenna's smirk said far more than her words. "It could be he misled   
you just a little." She thrust a computer-printed diagram toward   
Gan before Vila could voice further objections. "You two will be   
cleaning out the treasury safe while we see to the guns. The   
room's marked here in green."

Vila recognized the 'map' as one of the printouts he'd seen on   
Blake's table the night before. Just how it had been coaxed from   
the Federation's security-locked computer systems in the first   
place was undoubtedly Avon's handiwork. And the two of them were,   
of course, safe aboard the ship. Vila squinted at the diagram and   
grumbled, "Don't we have enough guns already? What's Blake want   
with more, anyhow?"

"Don't be naive, Vila." Gan touched a handgun on his own hip: in   
his case a weapon was purely decorative, and Vila almost wished he   
had the same excuse for not actually using the thing. At least   
with a limiter implant, no one accused you of cowardice.

"Everything is ready, Jenna." Cally joined their small gathering,   
many of the youngsters still hovering just behind her. She   
acknowledged Vila's presence with a nod before continuing, "Second   
unit will carry the percussion charges. First and third have the   
best hand artillery and training to guard our flanks during the   
main assault. It's a simple attack pattern, but it should   
suffice."

Vila aimed a disbelieving look at her. "You really enjoy this sort   
of thing, don't you?" He'd never understood the why of that any   
more than he would probably ever understand Cally. Small wonder   
the pacifist Aurons had disowned her.

She seemed genuinely baffled at the directness of his question.   
"Are you trying to be funny, Vila?"

"No," he said candidly. "Just trying to figure why we're here, is   
all. I've never gone in for suicide -- it's considered unhealthy   
where I come from."

"We're hardly planning a suicide mission," Gan scolded. "I'm   
certainly not."

Vila wasn't placated. "Doesn't mean no one will die, though, does   
it?"

Cally's tone was that of an indulgent but lecturing parent.   
"People die in every war. That is regrettable, certainly, but it   
is also unavoidable. Some causes are worth dying for.   
Overthrowing the Federation happens to be one of them."

A chorus of enthusiastic agreement echoed from behind her.   
Scanning the too-young faces with trepidation, Vila wondered again   
if any of them had ever drawn blood in any battle more pitched than   
a computer game. He doubted it.

"I'll get the first unit moving," Cally announced, and marched away   
with the admiring coterie at her boot-heels.

Jenna said, "Right. I'll let Blake know we're on our way. Time   
you two got started as well."

"I still say I won't be any use with this thing in my way," Vila   
complained of the gun. "I'm just a thief, not a stormtrooper. I   
never killed anyone..." The horrible memory of Cygnus Alpha   
surfaced to belie the words, and he trailed off to add lamely,   
"...with a gun before."

Jenna was anything but sympathetic. "Don't worry," she said as she   
turned away. "You'll get used to it."

Vila mouthed a Delta ancestral curse at her parting back, jumping   
when Gan's huge hand gripped his shoulder. "Shall we go?"

"Just open the door, he said," Vila muttered as though the other   
man hadn't spoken. "That was all. Now there's another room,   
another door, and a safe that's no doubt booby-trapped. It'll be   
Servalan's palace boudoir next."

Gan's amiable grin was back. "No need to worry. I'll be here to   
protect you."

"That's a comfort." Vila couldn't help the sarcasm. He nodded   
toward the weapon on Gan's hip. "You can't even fire that thing."

"The Federation don't know that. And anyway, if there's any   
problem, at least you can fire yours."

Vila's short, bitter laugh rang hollowly off the concrete walls.   
"A fine pair we make. 'In the country of the blind, the one-eyed   
man is king,' eh?"

Gan's brows knit. "How's that again?"

"Erasmus. Sixteenth century Earth, old calendar. I'm not just any   
everyday common thief, you know. I've read some of the antiques I   
stole."

"Must have addled your brain," Gan commented wryly. "It's got you   
talking in riddles, now."

"Never mind." Dismally, Vila fell into step with the departing   
rebel troops, Gan at his side. "Never mind," he repeated with a   
lengthy sigh. But to himself he added, "All the same, I think I've   
just been crowned king." 

* * * 

Blake teleported down -- no surprise to Vila -- to lead the actual   
assault. Avon was nowhere in evidence. Apparently, he'd found   
some way to defy their leader's powers of persuasion, and stay   
aboard ship. Vila would give a lot to know just what the computer   
expert had on Blake, and whether he could buy a piece of it.

Once Blake's troops had dispatched the perimeter guards, it was a   
short walk to the armory's east door, and a breath-holding 92   
seconds before Vila's talents defeated the lock. Then, without   
even a "well done, Vila," he was bustled through the door and   
ordered left while the rest of the invasion force stormed down the   
right-hand corridor. Alarms began screaming almost immediately.   
Vila shut his ears to the din, slung the awkward rifle over one   
shoulder and hurried on his way, scarcely aware of Gan running   
alongside.

The treasury door was kid's play, and there was no guard on duty --   
probably thanks to the alarm. Unchallenged, they entered a small,   
stuffy antechamber, passed through a swinging door that cut off the   
echoing klaxons, and found themselves in a blue-lit cubicle, the   
back wall of which formed Vila's next challenge. It was an   
octagonal panel emblazoned with the Federation symbol and ringed   
with winking lights.

"That's the safe?" Gan wondered aloud, making Vila start. "Sorry,"   
he apologized in a lower voice. "Guess I'm just not used to the   
burglary business."

"Not much of a safe," Vila whispered, squatting beside it to run   
his scanner expertly over the door's edges. "The light show is   
connected to a Van Densen unit, but there aren't any booby traps."

"A what unit?"

"Van... an internal alarm," the thief explained. "Probably   
triggers a security screen somewhere else in the complex."

Vila's tools emerged from their red case with the ease of   
familiarity and went to work bypassing the security device. Gan   
took up watch stance at the double doors to keep an eye on the   
outer room through twin oval windows. The safe surrendered to   
Vila's touch eight minutes later, but the yielded contents proved   
a major disappointment. No gold, no jewels; just five bundles of   
100-credit notes and a packet of Federation bonds. No wonder the   
security had been so lax -- there wasn't much to bother guarding.   
Vila stuffed it all into waiting compartments of the tool case, then   
began picking up the various instruments he'd strewn on the floor.

"Is that it?" Gan asked from the door.

"Just about. You go on ahead. I'll finish up here and be along in   
a moment."

Nodding, Gan disappeared into the antechamber. Vila packed the   
last of the tools with the care and affection of a master thief,   
then locked the case and rose to his feet. On an afterthought, he   
switched the kit to his left hand and pulled the rifle into ready   
position with his right. Getting in here may have been easy, but   
now that Blake and co. had wreaked havoc on the artillery stores   
and set off the alarms, all hell would have broken loose out there.

Not that I'll be any help, he thought glumly. Maybe I should   
just warn any troops I stumble across, 'Don't try anything -- I'm   
armed and terrified.'

The safe room's soundproofed doors opened onto the scream of more   
alarms and the sporadic explosions of gunfire. Vila pushed through   
to head for the outer door -- and froze two short steps later. Gan   
and a Federation trooper stood ten feet away in a stand-off, guns   
leveled at each other. Vila barely had time to register the   
situation before the helmeted figure swung toward him, its gloved   
finger closing on the paragun trigger. Vila heard two shots.   
Something crashed and clattered. The trooper fell against the wall   
and went down in a heap. Blinking, Vila looked down to see his   
tool chest on the floor, an ugly black burn mark bubbling on its   
plastic surface. His own finger released the trigger of the stolen   
rifle in mute realization that it had indeed fired. And killed.   
He didn't remember walking across the room, but he found himself   
kneeling there, lifting the green-visored helmet and pulling it   
away. He revealed a thin face framed in auburn hair; pale,   
painfully young, female. Vila wanted to be sick.

Alarms raged on in the corridors outside. Running footsteps and   
gunfire clattered past the door. Vila barely heard them. The   
ruined toolkit drifted back into view, with Gan now attached to it,   
and a large hand came gently to rest on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Vila,," the quiet voice assured. Only of course   
it wasn't. Vila doubted very much if things would ever be 'all   
right' again. He dropped the dead trooper's helmet beside her,   
climbed awkwardly back to his feet and with all the strength he   
could summon, hurled the rifle away from him. It sailed across the   
anteroom to strike one of the safe-chamber's oval windows. The   
perspex shattered with a loud pop and the gun slithered downward   
until the strap caught on a shard and suspended the weapon,   
swinging, against the door.

"Sometimes I'm almost glad for the limiter you know," Gan said.   
Then in far more serious tones, "Once was enough for me."

Vila looked at him with a world of misery in his eyes. Something   
was blurring the large man's figure, making him fuzzy around the   
edges. Vila heard the familiar chirp of the teleport bracelet's   
communicator, then Gan's voice stating, "Vila and I are through   
here. We'd like to come up, now."

Avon's crisp response came at once. "Stand by."

In the moments that followed, while Vila tried not to look at the   
thing on the floor, Gan moved into position beside him, wearing an   
expression that said without words how close they had both just   
come to death. "Vila..." he began.

The bracelets chimed.

"Teleporting now," Avon's voice announced.

The end of Gan's sentence was nearly lost in the hum and white   
glare of the energy field. "Thank you," he said.

And then the teleport beam took them home.

+++ End +++   


See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>


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